And The Ocean Calls My Name
by Salmagundi
Summary: In 1942, in the midst of WWII, England created the Sea Forts to combat German vessels. Neither he, nor the world, ever expected what consquence this would have. This is Sealand's story.
1. Chapter 1

_**And the Ocean Calls My Name**_

Notes: This was written for the Kink Meme Prompt: WWII Sea Fort!Sealand getting a pep talk from England. It sort of went off in a totally different direction though. IAfter lots of hemming and hawing - mostly me wondering if anyone would actually read it - I finally got around to uploading the chapters here.

_My name is Peter Kirkland... I'm also called Sealand. I am the smallest nation in the world. I was born in 1942 - or at least, that's the first moment I remember. It seems like a long tim__e ago now... I am still so young, they said, not a proper country at all. So many times, they said it, that I would never be a country. But they were wrong. Today. Right now. I am what I always knew I would be. And it's good... Even when it hurts... it's good. Everything I ever wanted and hoped for. _

_Mine, for this one wonderful moment. _

_Mine to keep, __**forever**__._

~ 01 ~

"What in the bloody blazes is this?!" A pair of blue eyes opened slowly at the sound of the raised voice, blinked, saw the world for the first time. Through the haze of light, so blinding brilliant for a few moments, he could make out the shape of a man standing over him. It never occurred to the boy to question the things he knew by instinct alone and this person, this green eyed stranger, was somehow familiar to him. So he did not cringe back when the man loomed over him threateningly, words sharp with demand. "How did you get in here? This is no place for childr-" The voice cut out as their eyes met, blue to green, and the man stuttered to a halt. Peered down at him as though he was some kind of alien creature - strange and untested.

Maybe he was. He didn't know. He couldn't be sure exactly what he was, except... new. That was it: he felt _new_.

"Who am I?" He asked, guileless in these early moments of his existence. If he didn't know who he was, he knew that this man would, somehow. "And who are you?" This last was added as an afterthought. His sense of self was still soft, malleable, but slowly beginning to solidify and take form.

"This is nonsense-" The man snarled, pacing a quick lap in front of him before returning to his former position, looking down at the boy still sprawled on the floor. "I am Arthur Kirkland. You may refer to me as 'England'. And you-" A second of hesitation, a hint of uncertainty behind verdant eyes. "You should not even exist. There were never any others before." Others? Other 'what's? Other 'who's?

"But who am I?" He called out again, perturbed at the lack of an answer - an unfamiliar emotion, another something new. He needed to hear it. He needed a name. Without a name, he had no self. Without a name, he was... nothing.

"You are-" A catch, a stutter in England's voice, "Fort Roughs, I suppose. Or you will be." England glanced over his shoulder, and the boy's eyes followed, to the sight of the construction underway. Two towers, rising as high as he could imagine, the scent of concrete and metal - sharp and earthy. The sight filled his vision, caught him - enthralled. The structure pulled at some place inside him and as he pushed to his feet, his first steps were as weak and wobbly as a foal's. He did not let this deter him, his legs steadying as he drew close enough to lay his palm against the nearest support. England made a choked noise of protest behind him, but that did not matter.

_Yes. Yes, of course._ "This is me." He breathed, delight dancing in his young voice. "I am this. Here I am."

And England, standing to his back, sounded so much less enthused, so much more weary. "Right. Here you are. Just my damn luck, isn't it? Now what am I going to do with you?"

The boy who had no name yet, but who would be Fort Roughs, had no concern for the unhappiness in the man's voice, not when he was still engulfed in the first brilliant euphoria of _life_. How it had happened was of no concern to him, because he was alive and that was something altogether marvelous and unexpected. And he laughed his first laugh for the sheer joy of _being_.

The need for more would come, and come quickly, but for now there was this, and there was him, and that was all there was to the world. And the world was good. So very good.

- 1943 -

"So, Angleterre, who is this?" The boy looked up as he heard someone approaching - England, with a curious stranger at his side. He drew himself up straight, not sure who this was, but eager to make a good impression.

"Hello!" He chirped in cheerful greeting, holding out his hand. The stranger in the blue uniform took it with a purr and a catlike smile of satisfaction.

""Merveilleux! You are a charming boy, aren't you?" The man crooned, pressing a kiss to the back of the soon-to-be-Fort's hand. "Ah, Angleterre, gros cochon! Where on earth did you find him? And why did you not tell me? Such a sweet little colony!"

England's voice was low and flat, without humour. "He is not a colony, Francis. He is a fort." He gestured to the completed structure behind them, ready to be towed out to its destination. "I found him here partway through the construction of Fort Roughs."

The stranger - France, was it? Yes... France - straightened up immediately, looking at England with brows furrowed and lips pursed, a long stare. England met his gaze steadily, arms crossed, and after a few more moments of this, France let out a soft chuckle before falling into awkward silence again. "I see how you are trying to make a fool of me, Arthur. It is an amusing ruse. But seriously, where did you find him? I wasn't aware there were territories left to be colonized. Or have you kept him secret for a long while?"

"I _am_serious." There was not a trace of amusement in England's tone.

France's face fell, blue eyes wide, and he finally released the boy's hand. "Absurde! C'est absolument impossible!" His gaze went from England to the child, "We cannot simply 'make' others, Angleterre! The world does not work that way!"

The boy glanced at each of the adult nations, confusion skittering across his face. He did not yet have any grasp on what they were discussing, exactly, except that it concerned him. He might have spoken, but England was faster and more knowledgeable besides, stepping in and leading the conversation before he could consider what, exactly, he would have asked. "Don't you think I know that? Honestly, why would I lie about something like this, Idiot? I can't explain it. He's just... here. That's all."

"C'est vraiment bizarre..." France murmured in a voice like a low breeze. "And he is a fort?"

They were talking over him, even with him standing there, and frustration began to bubble in the pit of his belly, fingers curling against his palms as he looked from one to the other. He might as well have not even been in the same room with them. So vexing!

"Fort Roughs." A shrug of England's shoulders, "He will be stationed at Rough Sands."

"That is a poor name," France demurred, "What other name have you given him?"

"What other name does he need? He's a _fort_, Francis! That's all."

Oh... he was starting to hate that word. Hate was a new thing too, a twisted, knot of heaviness in his chest. He hated the curl of England's lips and the way he spat out 'fort' like it was something nasty and cold. And beneath the hate, there was an undercurrent of disappointment that threatened to sweep his feet out from under him.

"He is your brother, Arthur!" A considering pause, "Or maybe he is more like your son... since you created him. Perhaps you should give him your name? Another Kirkland, non?"

"Nonsense..."

"I would like a name very much, please!" He piped in, sensing that England was going to deny him something he had only just realised he wanted very badly. The boy was appealing more to France than to England, sensing a potential ally - the two did not seem to agree on much.

"See!" A hand resting on his shoulder and a smile like honeyed pastries, light and syrupy sweet. "Be kind, Angleterre. Give the boy a name."

The child's blue eyes went England, wide and hopeful, and the nation made a pained noise. "Fine! You can have a name. It's of no consequence one way or another." He threw up his hands, as if to say 'do what you like'.

A smirk twisted on France's lips, a teasing lilt to his voice. "Perhaps I shall name him then? Something lovely like Phillipe. Or maybe he is more of a Benoît, hm?"

England whirled on him. "For god's sake, no! Keep your nose and your ridiculous names out of this, Frog!" He glanced down at the expectant boy, fumbled with his words for a moment with nothing escaping him, then barked, "Peter! That's it. You're Peter. Happy now?"

Peter...? He was already trying it on for size in his mind, found it fitting.

"Oui! Peter Kirkland, then." France cooed, taking his hand again. "May fortune be kind to you little one, and let you grow to be more charming than Arthur."

"Why you-"

The two quickly descended into a scuffle and a wild chase around the shipyard, France laughing and England swearing incoherently. The young fort ignored both of them, testing the name on his tongue.

"Peter. My name is Peter Kirkland." Enjoying the way it rolled from his tongue, the taste of it on his lips. Enjoying the first thrill of victory at the mere having of what had been denied him. It tasted sweet - a sugar coating to the bitter edge of his given title. He was more than simple Fort Roughs. He was Peter. Peter Kirkland. Thank you very much.

-

It was drizzling the day they gave Fort Roughs to the water. The boy stood beside England, his heart pattering high and fast in his chest as the men began to move the structure. He had the strange, dizzying sense of being in both places at once. He was aware of being Peter - the one standing next to Arthur - but he was also aware of being Fort Roughs, a construct of metal and stone, and every tearing scrape of the shifting concrete went straight through his small body. Into the water for the first time, tense with fear and excitement, and his form didn't sink. It was enough to ease the minute trembling of his hands and he darted a glance and a smile at England, who was overseeing this whole event in silence, lips pulled into a grim line.

Fort Roughs felt the nation's distantness and he lowered his head again, not quite with a sigh, watching as the tugs began to pull his structure out across the water. They followed in another ship, out into the open sea, the shore receding behind them and becoming a distant, misty shape.

He wasn't sure how, but he knew when they reached their destination - it was a knowledge that had nothing to do with the buoys that were marking the spot - and another thrill of that excitement and fear shivered through him. England was giving orders to be relayed to someone, but the young fort was too lost in sensation to register the words. An abrupt coldness went through him, a feeling like liquid pooling in his belly, and he gasped, his hands gripping the rail as he felt the concrete barge that served as the base of his fort, beginning to take on water. His feet were planted solidly on the deck, but he felt the urge to struggle and kick as the ocean began to surge up and engulf his supports.

Though he was trying very hard to hold tight to courage and be the strong fort that he was supposed to be, the feeling was too much. He felt like he was drowning, the sea wrapping herself around him and drawing him down. It was how he imagined dying must feel, and a cry tore from his lips before he could silence it - high and terrified. The sailors' eyes went to him and he felt the dampness of tears on his cheeks. Raising one hand, he tried to swipe the tears away, shaking so hard that he only made it worse.

'What a child', they must have been thinking, and Fort Roughs snuffled a little, still trembling and gasping. The brush of a hand against his shoulder caught his attention, and he turned to see England there. Green eyes were dark with some unfathomable emotion, but the nation held out a hand to him and Fort Roughs took it, held on so tightly that his fingers hurt as he buried his face against England's chest to muffle his sobs. A hand petted awkwardly at his hair, the first comfort his brother/father had ever offered him.

Moments passed - an eternity - and then he felt it, felt as his base hit bottom on the sea floor and settled into place. The sensation of drowning began to ease.

It took just a little longer for him to establish some kind of control over himself, his sobs easing until he was simply panting in short wet gasps. England's shirt was damp and sticky with his tears, but in a moment of courtesy, the nation did not push Fort Roughs away, waiting for the boy to pull back on his own.

"Well, that's complete then," England cleared his throat, patting briskly at the fort's shoulder. "We should be able to begin deployment in just a few minutes." He didn't ask if the boy was okay - and though Fort Roughs wasn't really surprised, he couldn't help the stab of disappointment. He'd embarrassed England by crying, he sensed, but there was nothing he could do about that now. There was nothing for it but to try harder and show his big brother that he could handle this mission.

The deployment was a scramble, a mess of bodies and barked out orders, and the boy standing there struggling to take it all in, so unsure throughout the proceedings. The pounding of feet against the platform reverberated through him and he wondered if this was what it was like for England all the time, when the nation had so many more people than the hundred or so men who were stationed on him.

Once things had settled a little, England was there again, catching Fort Roughs off-guard with his presence. The nation had a serious look on his face as he approached, hands coming down to rest firmly on the boy's shoulders. "That's as much as I can do for the time being. You'll need to handle things from here on your own." Fort Roughs gave a slight bob of his head in acknowledgment and England continued. "I don't know if you're aware just how important this is, Peter." It was the first time England had called him by his given name, and he found himself transfixed as the man spoke. "The Germans have taken to deploying mines in these waters - disrupting our shipping and transport routes. People are starving, Peter. I need you to be alert - to make sure they can't block this area. This is vital to the country's survival, do you understand?"

Oh... oh he did understand. He felt like his little body was buoyant, like he might float away at the import of what his brother was telling him. This was such an important mission, and he was going to try hard and help a lot of people! And then England would be proud of him.

He drew himself up straight and proud. "I understand, brother!"

The uncertainty was back in England's eyes, that look he didn't understand. "Just call me England."

"Yes sir, England!" He gave a crisp salute, held it. Waited. England stared at him for a long moment, green eyes wide, then he gave a slight bob of his head.

"Good. Very good." But he didn't return the salute, though Fort Roughs waited for several long minutes. Slowly the boy lowered his hand, unhappiness flitting across his features. They made their way back to the platform, England descending and reboarding the ship waiting below. He looked back up, to the youth standing far above the water, and Fort Roughs saluted again. This time, he wasn't surprised when it wasn't returned... just disappointed.

-

"We'll all go crazy eventually," One of the men was saying - the same tune, day in and day out, "Months trapped in this cramped hellhole - an open target. If we're not destroyed by the enemy, we'll turn on each other. Mark my words, it'll happen. This is no way for a human to live!"

Fort Roughs sighed, diverting around the table instead of sitting there as he would have normally. He took his food up, up to the platform, sat with his legs dangling over the edge as he ate his rations. Bland, tasteless things... no wonder his men were unhappy. But what could he do about it? He wasn't the one who determined the rotation schedule. It was a matter that he set to pondering, and pondering hard.

No solution came to him. Not that day. Not the day after. The third day into his deep thoughts, his desire became need, as the first hint of disaster brushed him.

'Fort Madness', they called it. Something unpredictable. Something irrational. It caused men to behave in ways they would not have under normal conditions. In hindsight, he wasn't sure why it had surprised him so... Fort Roughs was never to know for certain if the man had jumped or been pushed - certainly no one was coming forth to confess to the latter. The end result was the same. By the time they fished the body out of the water, there was no hope for a resuscitation. There was even less hope that this would be an incident unrepeated.

So he did what he had to do. He got their coastal contacts on the radio and asked to talk to England. Demanded it, when the man on the other end of the line showed no signs of responding to a friendly overture. For the good of his men - for the war effort in general - something had to be done.

England came to see him in person, battered and looking weary. He listened in silence as Fort Roughs explained his situation, asked for a change to the rotation to allow his men more shore time. And when the boy was done outlining all of the things his men needed, England let out his breath in a long sigh. A hand patted gingerly at Fort Rough's shoulder, the look on England's face annoyingly familiar - it was that 'you're too young to know better' expression. Fort Roughs had gotten it from several of the human officers situated there in the early weeks of deployment, though it had mostly died out by now.

"I understand your problem," He began, in a tone so reasonable that Fort Roughs knew he was going to be denied. "But with the war going on, our resources are already stretched thin. We're lacking in additional men to be able to take over the duties here, and even if we had those, it would be counterproductive to be constantly running boats back and forth. I'm afraid there's really nothing I can do at the moment."

It made sense. Sure it did. But that did nothing to ease his qualms... though it did spark a low ember of resentment that had been building in his belly for a while now. He balled his hands into fists, stamped a foot on the deck and snapped back in a petulant tone. "I don't care! Don't be such an ass! My men are dying out here and you aren't doing anything to help! You don't even care!"

As soon as he said the words, he knew they were a mistake. He could read the anger in the tenseness of England's shoulders, the sharp flare of his nostrils as he drew a breath. He could see it in the sudden chill of those green eyes regarding him. "Don't be presumptuous." There was a cold edge to his tone that made the boy want to flinch back. "What kind of nerve do you have, standing here and accusing me of not caring about what happens to these people? They're _my_ men. And I have many others fighting and dying even as I'm here talking about your petty problems. Don't be such a self-centered brat. You're not a child - so stop behaving like one."

Fort Roughs bit his lip, feeling the urge to scream, to run and flail his fists at the man standing in front of him. He bit back on the urge to cry - it would only prove England right. "Then what should I do?" He gritted the words out between his teeth.

England's eyes narrowed and he drew himself up straight, running one hand through his hair with a sigh. "Just... just find a solution that doesn't require rotating the schedule. I will provide anything I can afford to spare, but the schedule must remain the same." This was it... the best offer England had for him. Considering the exchange of sharp words, he was shocked that the nation was even giving him this much.

Swallowing, Fort Roughs nodded, silent. He stayed silent as England left - saluting his nation. England didn't even see it this time, and Fort Roughs only held the salute for a few seconds before letting his hand drop to his side.

Days later, a ship arrived, bringing with it cartons of supplies. In among the usual rations were new materials as well: paper and paints, yarn and thread, blank books and canvases. They weren't much... these things, but it gave the men something else to focus their minds on during the long, lonely days. Even Fort Roughs was grateful for something new to do when he wasn't on-duty, and in his off-hours he began to teach himself to knit - started on a simple scarf in white, red and black.

By the time the war was over, he had enough scarves for his entire garrison.

-

Translations:

Merveilleux! - "Wonderful!"

"Ah, Angleterre, gros cochon" - "England, you pig!"

"Absurde! C'est absolument impossible!" - "Ridiculous! That is impossible!"

"C'est vraiment bizarre..." - "This is very strange"


	2. Chapter 2

- 1944 -

The war was taking a turn. Fort Roughs could feel it vibrating through the men: a tense, hopeful air. Anxious. It was nothing that affected his own duties though, not until they began pulling troops from the tower and sending them to posts elsewhere. It felt like every time the ships brought his men back, there were less of them. This, too, was a kink in the routine, something that he found himself having to adjust to. It wasn't like he really needed that many troops in occupation all at once. Gradually he was able to convince himself of the truth of this fact, reminding himself of England's words whenever he felt the urge to whine and complain. If England could be strong with his people at war, then Fort Roughs could be strong too.

His conviction was not to last, however.

It was a shift rotation, the time when he had the least available men on duty. This was never an issue - had never been an issue. There were men to keep an eye on the radar and men to man the guns, and it had been quiet of late, besides. Even so, Fort roughs was up and about, restless, pacing the platform and keeping an attentive eye on the skies overhead. His thoughts, though... those were fixed on something further away: a point in time, rather than a place.

All he'd known so far in his brief life had been the war. He was created for the war, defined in his purpose by conflict. The sailors knew something else, something more - a knowledge that Fort Roughs found himself both craving and resenting in equal measures. What was peace like, that they spoke of it with such melancholy? He could barely imagine all of the things they described and yet, while he would listen, he could feel some vague, vicarious sense of it. When he thought of what would come after - when there was peace again - he sometimes thought of the things the men would say and tried to form a picture in his head.

He had no parents, not in the human sense of the word anyway, but in his fancies it was England, his brother and creator, who would fill that role. He thought of green; green sea giving way to green grass - the sky the same endless blue overhead. He thought of taking off his shoes and letting the sand slip between his bare toes. He thought of fresh earth and the things that grew in it, and wondered how it would smell different than the salt brine that pervaded his world now. He thought of playing - of careless, children's games - all the things that he had never done before. It would be perfect. Perfect.

At last the scrape of metal against metal was enough to jar him out of his daydream, jolting him to his feet. Inwardly he cursed at his own inattention, and the voice in his head, scolding him, sounded too much like England. He made his way around the platform, wondering if one of the men had come up from below, paused as he saw no one in sight. Worry spiked in him; that another human might have thrown himself into the water - though some logical part of his mind was insisting otherwise, there hadn't been a splash, after all. The concern was foremost in his min as he approached the edge. There was no body in the sea below, but what he saw sent fear crawling through his veins.

He recognized the shape of the boat, if not its exact make - not British, certainly, not any of the Allied forces. Empty, but there was little ch ance that a boat gone adrift would have wound up here, anchored beside the tower. There was a length of rope hanging down; someone had managed to hook it to the platform (and how had he not noticed?!) but whoever that someone - or maybe multiple someones, but he hoped he would have caught wind of that much, at least - was, they had already made their ascent.

Fort Roughs tensed, shot a glance back over his shoulder, fully expecting to find someone looming right behind him. There was no one - all evidence suggesting that the intruder had found his way down into one of the concrete towers.

But which?

Fort Roughs narrowed his eyes, his heart hammering in his chest as he moved, shaky-legged toward the nearer of the two. Every hair was on end as he descended into the structure, blue eyes raking the area. He saw nothing - continuing on, still nothing. How many of the enemy could there be, on a boat that small? Two? Five? He still had plenty of men here to handle such a situation...

The boy hesitated, diverted deeper into the concrete leg, down past the generators, down into the farthest depths. He could feel the vibrations of the ocean as he entered the magazine, grabbing a rifle and a handful of .303s, fumbling them into one pocket. Determination glinted in his eyes as he took his weapon and headed back up - two floors, three floors, four floors and counting, past the barracks and where were all the men anyway? Surely they hadn't cleared out an entire leg...

He slowed as he reached the generators again, the hum of the machines making it difficult to hear anything. Every muscle was tense as he double-checked the area - one of the easiest places for someone to commit acts of sabotage. Eyes narrowed, as he crept around the generator, rifle clutched to his chest, nearly jumping at the sight of his own shadow moving against the wall. There was nothing around the corner and he let out a slow, shaky breath, raising a hand to swipe across his damp brow.

Nothing. There was no one here.

His grip on the rifle eased just a little as he tried to get his racing heartbeat under a semblance of control, making his way around to the other side of the generator in his path toward the exit. Fort Roughs didn't notice his second shadow until a second later - wavering in the light of the electric lamps. He froze, instinctively, moved to whirl around, and felt a strong hand slide around his middle, jerking him back against a larger form. His gun hit the floor with a clatter and he barely noticed.

From this angle, he could see nothing of his captor, but he could feel a hot breath against his ear, a smirk evident in the accented voice. "_Tag._ Now it's your turn to hide." The man gave a short laugh - positively smug - and Fort Roughs felt his heart lurch to a halt in his chest.

Fort Roughs made a strangled little noise, fear and aggravation spiking - before he could think better of the reaction, he jerked his arm up and felt his elbow slam sharply into his captor's face. The blow elicited a low string of words in a guttural language that Fort Roughs didn't understand. Of more importance was the slackening of the arm around him. He squirmed free, his heart pounding against his ribs as he scrambled forward - somehow finding the presence of mind to grab his gun as he did so. When he whirled around, it gave him his first look at the intruder.

He could honestly say he'd never seen anyone quite like this before. The man's hair was short and wild and a pale shade that was nothing like the dark or blonde hair of most of the sailors Fort Roughs had seen. It looked almost... white. The eyes that were fixed on him, though they were narrowed, were a deep red shade. This man looked like a ghost from the stories that Fort Rough's troops would tell. It was only the fact that blood was trickling from between the man's fingers where he was pinching at his nose, that made it clear that he was actually a person and not some spectre.

"That was a pretty good one," the man pulled his hand back, looking at his red-stained fingers with a slight smirk. "I wasn't expecting such feisty behavior from a little brat belonging to England!" He straightened up, everything about his posture dripping confidence. Fort Roughs swallowed, barely resisting the urge to take a step backward - feeling very small and shaky compared to this intruder.

Still, he tried to keep his voice from wobbling as he addressed the man, words displaying a surety that he certainly didn't feel. "You're an intruder here! If you don't leave, I'll shoot you!"

Red eyes widened for a moment, raking over Fort Roughs, assessing his stance. Then the man laughed - head thrown back in a moment of what appeared to be genuine humor. "You really are an amusing one!" While the laughter bubbled out quickly enough, the man was still smirking widely at Fort Roughs, "England must be desperate if he's recruiting this young! How old are you, boy?"

Something about the man's tone was vaguely mocking and Fort Roughs found himself bristling despite his fear. He was unable to help the haughty rise of his chin, his eyes cool as he answered. "I'm nineteen months."

"Bullshit!" The man barked a laugh. "There's no way you're nineteen..." he paused, his red eyes narrowing contemplatively as he looked at Fort Roughs again. "-months?"

The young fort shivered under that gaze, something prickling at the edges of his thoughts, only solidifying into a coherent mass as the stranger shifted, moving toward him just a step. Immediately Fort Roughs raised his weapon in both trembling hands, holding it up. But what passed his lips was not the warning he'd been intending. "You-" He heard himself say, barely comprehending the words. "You're a nation." No question. He just knew, somehow.

Shock blossomed in the man's eyes, bright for just a second before he reached for his own weapon, hand resting on the butt of his gun. "How do you know that?" Then, warier, "What are you?"

Not who. _What._

"I am Peter Kirkland." The name meant nothing to the intruder, it was clear in the cant of his head and the dark look in his eyes. "You're on my territory."

"..." A long stare, a glimmer of intrigue in the odd, crimson eyes. "You're a personification of some kind?" A heartbeat passed, then a further realization dawned on his adversary, "Your territory?" The man looked around himself, surprise and delight skittering across his face. "This?! Hah! England made you?" Again, that note of incredulity that Fort Roughs had heard first from England, then from France. Was he really such an oddity?

"Yes." He wasn't sure why, but the word came out short and sharp.

"Aha... then maybe I won't just blow you up." The intruder's stance shifted somehow - subtle, but Fort Roughs could sense the change in his intent. "I should bring you back with me, Germany's scientists will be very interested in you."

"A-aren't you Germany?" Fort Roughs had never met Germany - or even a German, for that matter - but this man was a nation and the enemy so he'd just assumed...

The stranger paused in his advance, letting out another of those short laughs. "Of course I'm not! The overwhelming awesomeness in front of you is Prussia!"

Prussia? Fort Roughs was unfamiliar with the name, but whoever he was, the man was still a nation - a nation who was currently threatening not only to take over his tower, but to take him back to Germany for scientists to experiment on. Fort Roughs continued his slow retreat, darting glances around in case there might be something nearby to assist him. He let out a startled squeak as his back came up against the wall, fingers tightening on his weapon. "I won't go back to Germany with you!"

His protestations fell upon deaf ears as the man closed the distance between them, every motion dripping confidence. Fort Roughs shifted the rifle in his hands, aiming at Prussia's chest. He'd held a gun before, but never fired one. His fingers were shaking, his gaze drawn again and again to that smug expression on Prussia's face. The nation didn't think he could do it! Already, Prussia was so close that he could almost reach out and snatch the weapon away - one hand reached out to catch at the barrel of the gun...

The sharp crack of the weapon firing filled the entire world.

Both of them froze in place, shock bleeding onto both their faces, then Prussia took a step back. He raised one hand to his shoulder, surprise fluttering across his face. The shot had been pretty wild - Fort Roughs had aimed it at the man's chest, or tried, but at some point his grip on the weapon had shifted and the shot had gone completely wild. As close as they'd been though, it would have been more of a challenge for him to miss.

"You shot me!" Prussia's voice was incredulous as he pulled his hand away from his bleeding shoulder.

Fort Roughs wasn't sure if he should be triumphant or sick. He'd never physically hurt someone before - shooting at aircraft wasn't the same... But he blurted back, high and tremulous, "I said I would!"

He expected the man to be angry. He expected some kind of backlash in response to what he'd just done. What he didn't expect was the reemergence of that smirk. Despite being wounded, Prussia didn't seem at all fazed, "You did say that. Hah. I've decided I like you after all, kid." Then his hand darted out, caught hold of the rifle that Fort Roughs was holding and dashed it out of his hand. "So maybe I won't give you to the scientists. It'd be a shame to have to destroy you. So why not surrender and come with me now - I bet you'd have fun at my house. Hell, it's been a while since I got to bring someone up and something tells me you'd be a bit less uptight than Germany."

Disbelief shuddered through Fort Roughs. Was Prussia seriously asking him not just to surrender, but to join him? Worse than the offer was the brief moment of temptation - because as much as Prussia was the enemy and thus a 'very bad person', there was something in the man's tone that Fort Roughs had always wanted to hear coming from England. "You want me to come and be your little brother?" It shouldn't have sounded so good...

"Why not? I can teach you how to be awesome!"

Fort Roughs thought of England. He thought of the look of surprise on England's face, the unease and the way England never wanted to look directly at him. Something inside his chest felt tight at the thought, a low ache he hadn't even realized was there before. Prussia wanted him as a little brother and England...

Did England want him? Did England even care?

"I-" The refusal didn't rise to his lips as easily as he'd hoped it would, temptation twisting at his insides. Then he thought of England - of England broken and bleeding. England's people starving as the ships were prevented from bringing supplies. The temptation gave way to hurt and horror, and he shook his head, vehement in his refusal, "I won't! I'm not going to be your brother!"

Prussia tensed, eyes narrowing, and Fort Roughs sensed the move he was about to make. Still, Fort Roughs stood his ground, just a few heartbeats longer. Waiting. Prussia uncoiled like a snake, lunging for him, and Fort Roughs ducked aside, scampering out of his reach. Fort Roughs' heart was pounding in his chest as he took advantage of the moment of disorientation that followed the move, scrambling up the ladder toward the upper decks. Prussia wanted him alive - that hadn't changed, or else he would have shot instead of trying to grab.

Panic spurred him on, the sound of boots behind him. He could hear Prussia following him, ascending to the upper levels. Up to the platform. The salt spray on the wind hit him hard as he clambered onto the deck and he went a short distance on hands and knees before pushing himself to his feet.

The loud clang of someone emerging from below. Fort Roughs turned to look behind him and Prussia was there, standing up already, towering over him.

If he could just get to the other leg, he knew there were members of his crew there - men who could help him. But Prussia's slow advance drove him back and further from the potential escape route. Fort Roughs reached the edge of the platform, driven into a corner. Where were the men? Why did they not know something was wrong?

How could they not know someone was here?

"Want to try this again?" Prussia was asking him, if anything, more smug now. And why shouldn't he be, there was nowhere left for Fort Roughs to run.

The young fort looked over his shoulder, down at the sea surging below. The hiss of water moving around the tower was almost hypnotic. He shuffled back another step, his heels right up against the drop. For a moment, he felt a dizzying sense of height, swaying for a second. It felt like the sea was reaching up for him...

A hand grabbed the front of his uniform, yanked him away from the edge. Fort Roughs blinked, the fogginess over his thoughts clearing as he was pulled against Prussia's body, an arm wrapped around his shoulders. Someone was yelling...

He blinked again and the world came back into focus.

Men were emerging from the far leg of the tower, and they were shouting. Prussia's grip on him tightened and Fort Roughs knew his men wouldn't shoot while he was being held captive like this. They couldn't risk hitting him. But Prussia wasn't likely to shoot either - it would have ruined the his chances of an escape, now that he was outnumbered and surrounded. It was a standoff.

Fort Roughs squirmed in Prussia's grip, but the hold on him was secure and only tightened further when he moved. He had to stop when it began to cut off his air.

"Surrender now-" the captain was saying, "You're surrounded!"

"Yeah," Prussia's tone was mocking, the cold metal of a gun pressed to Fort Rough's temple. "But what happens if I shoot your boy, here?" It was the question all of them had to be thinking - all the ones who knew what Fort Roughs was anyway.

The sound of a foghorn going off caused Fort Roughs to jerk in Prussia's grip, surprise and hope welling in his small body. He wasn't the only one craning his head to look either - all of the sailors were peering in the direction of the sound too. So was Prussia.

And it was! It was the ship carrying the replacement sailors!

He could hear Prussia muttering something in a guttural tongue - Prussian? Was there such a language as Prussian, or was he speaking German? It occurred to Fort Roughs that if Prussia was so badly outnumbered that he had no chance of escape, then there was no reason for him to not shoot. Fort Roughs shivered a little, certain that this rescue was only going to wind up getting him killed. And he heard the click of the gun being cocked, felt the vibration against his skin. Swallowed, feeling a tingling nervousness in his limbs. God... he didn't want to die... He was barely used to being alive...

"Later then, Peter Kirkland." Then the grip around him shifted, a hand going to the small of his back and shoving him forward. Fort Roughs hit the deck, face first, palms shredding as he tried to catch himself. He gasped, staring over his shoulder at Prussia who gave a quick twist of his lips. The sailors were slow on the draw, as surprised by this move as Fort Roughs himself was. They were scrambling to pull their weapons again when Prussia leaped off the edge.

Fort Roughs scrambled to the edge of the platform, ignoring his bleeding hands. He got there just in time to see the man disappear beneath the waves. He waited, unable to breathe. And just when he thought he might be about to pass out from holding his breath so long, he saw ripples beside the moored boat. Seconds later, Prussia climbed up into the craft. Fort Roughs wasn't sure why, but he felt an odd relief settle over him.

His head lowered to rest against the cool metal, chest rising and falling in short bursts as the events of the day really sank in. He was shaking. Why was he shaking? The sailors were around him, he could feel them, close enough to touch. Arms slid under his limp form and picked him up, the world doing a lurching rotation around him. The last thing he was aware of before losing consciousness was being carried, voices murmuring to him that everything was going to be okay. The sound followed him down into the dark.

-


	3. Chapter 3

- 1945 -

It was over. The war was over. Though the surrenders were a mere formality at this point, Fort Roughs and his men were gathered around the radio in silent anticipation. Germany had been declared to be at the verge of defeat, Italy had folded long before, leaving only Japan's skirmishes with the United States an ocean away. Still, none of those things felt real. Fort Roughs didn't know any of them, had never met them or set foot on their lands, and he had no images in his head to associate with their names. Only the words mattered.

"Well boys," their commander's voice rang out over the speakers, "it's over. We've won." And while the men laughed with the relief at just being alive and present in the moment, at finding themselves at the end of this long nightmare when it had seemed so impossible to reach for so long, Fort Roughs felt a sensation of falling. It was like plunging into the cold of the water all over again, not finding anything solid beneath him. As much as they'd always talked about "after" - after the war is over, I'll marry my sweetheart, after the war is over, I'll write that book I've always wanted to do, after the war is over, I'm going to see the world - the concept had still been something foreign to Fort Roughs. "After" wasn't real, it was some idealized fantasy to keep the men going day after day.

But now it was here. Now it was _after_. The war was over.

And Fort Roughs was only just now beginning to realize that he didn't know anything else. He looked to his men, all of them exultant, their thoughts already turning to places he'd never been and things he'd never known. He swallowed, smiled as the captain's gaze drifted across him. The expression never touched his eyes, disappeared as the man looked away. Fort Roughs excused himself and none of them noticed.

Up he went, up to the platform above - empty for the moment with all of the sailors down below, planning for the futures they'd been hoping for all this time. Fort Roughs stood on the edge, looking out over the water. A breeze stirred his hair, the crispness and brine of the ocean against his cheeks, and he breathed in the scent.

It was over. His hands shook a little as he sank down to sit with his legs dangling over the edge. He gave a distracted kick, aware of his own body for really the first time since his 'birth'. Fort Roughs felt odd and awkward - legs to long and unwieldy - he wasn't sure what to make of this changing sense of self.

"What are you doing up here by yourself, lad?"

Fort Roughs turned with a startled yelp, his eyes wide and his expression touched with a hint of guilt, though he had nothing to feel guilty over. "C-captain." Fort Roughs ran one hand through his hair, not quite able to meet the man's gaze. "I just came up to get some air."

"Ah," and somehow that single sound spoke volumes, "I see."

Biting his lip a little, Fort Roughs added, abashed, "I'm sorry if I've troubled you, Captain."

"It's alright my boy. This is a strange time for everyone, I'd wager. The important thing now is to make the best of what we've got."

"And what is that?" Fort Roughs murmured, soft as the lapping waves below.

"Peter," the sound of his own name on the captain's lips startled Fort Roughs. He was so used to being called 'Fort Roughs' or 'lad' or 'boy', especially by his human residents, that 'Peter' was almost a foreign word. "I know you're worried about what this means for you - and there's nothing I can do to reassure you. I don't know what plans they've made for you with the war's end, but were it up to me, I'd wish to give you a proper childhood now that there's no need for you."

"I'm not a child, Captain." His words were an echo of England's.

"Aye, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't have the chance to be one." A hand patting at his shoulder, gentle. "You're a good boy, Peter. It may not mean much coming from a human, but I'm honoured to have spent this time here. I hope my Ben will grow to be as brave and hardworking a lad as you."

Fort Roughs felt a quivering warmth in his chest at those words, taking the Captain's hand and allowing the man to help him to his feet. "Thank you, Captain. I- I'm-" His voice cut off as he was tugged into a swift hug. He was still reeling as the Captain pulled back to give him a rough, but amiable pat on the shoulder.

"Come on, Peter. Buck up. This is a moment to enjoy yourself. You're a successful war-leader. There's not many your age who can claim such a thing!" The captain gave a slight smile, expression almost hidden beneath his mustache. "The boys have found some... urm... celebratory drinks. I'm sure they'll be happy to share a victory toast."

"Some might think I'm a bit young to be drinking, Sir." Despite his melancholy thoughts of earlier, Fort Roughs grinned.

"I doubt there's any among my men who would report you if you did. You've certainly earned it." Both of them shared a soft laugh, the last of Fort Rough's worries melting away for the time being. The uncertainties of the future would come soon enough, for now there was time to revel in the present.

"Lead on, Captain! Maybe we'll even get below before those lushes of yours finish off the bottle!"

_-_

The celebrations were short lived, indeed. Three days after the announcement, word came that Fort Roughs was to be decommissioned. All of the worries he'd had before were nothing compared to the sharp, cramping fear in his belly as he pondered what that entailed, exactly. No one was able to tell him what being "decommissioned' meant for a personification, aside from the papers that were put in front of him to initial and sign. There was a lump in his throat as he held the pen, fingers shaking a little as he put his name to the orders that would turn his entire life on end.

For a while, nothing particularly different happened - several of the men were pulled from their duty shifts and moved elsewhere, and Fort Roughs was grateful that the captain was not among these. Every time the boats returned, they brought fewer and fewer men with them and Fort Roughs began to feel hollow, like there was a gnawing emptiness building in his middle that no amount of food would fill.

Gradually the numbers began to steady, a constant crew settling into place. They began to talk about what would become of Fort Roughs now. Many ideas passed across the table, but no decisions. The limbo of uncertainty was worse than the war had been: more nerve-wracking.

It was after the bombs were dropped on Japan, the last holdout from the Axis, that England came to see him. The nation was dressed in a different uniform than usual, looking worn and still a bit gaunt, but somehow relieved. "Sorry to have kept you waiting so long," England began. "There were many things to take care of after the surrender. I'm afraid your decommissioning was not a priority."

Fort Roughs had no reason to be offended at that, he'd already known that there had to be many things to clean up after the war. He knew, but somehow it did nothing to quell the unhappy churning in his middle. Nonetheless, he drew himself up straight. "I understand br- England." A long pause, then he asked the question that had been lingering foremost in his mind for the last couple of months, ever since the end of the hostilities in Europe. "So what will happen to me now?"

The long silence on the heels of his question was far from reassuring. Fort Roughs darted a glance at England's face and saw hesitation there - it solidified the cold fear in him. "My government is... undecided on what will be done with the Sea Forts now that the war is over. We're looking for ways to continue making use of them, perhaps as communications platforms." England never referred to Fort Roughs specifically. There was a stiffness to his stance, his tone carefully dispassionate.

"So I'll still be working then?" Fort Roughs was both relieved and disappointed at this. "Will my crew be returned?"

"Most have already been reassigned. Those remaining will be your permanent crew."

Fort Roughs frowned a little at this, but gave a curt nod. "I understand, England. Is there anything else I should be doing?"

"Someone will be along shortly to assist you with realignment and make sure everything is set up properly for your new assignments." England shifted, his gaze going toward his ship, still anchored and waiting for him. "I can't stay, I have other things to attend to."

"England?" His eyes met England's green ones, the colour murky like the sea below. "Will I be allowed shore leave soon?" 

"What?" The sharp note of incredulity in England's voice did not bode well. "Why do you need shore leave? You're not a human. You should do perfectly well out here."

Resentment bubbled in the boy, fired by the dismissive words. Did nations never leave their own soil? He knew they did, but even if they hadn't... England had land - coasts and hills and stretches of forest and the brackish moors. England had plenty of space to stretch his legs, he had variety to stave off any feelings of boredom or stagnation. Fort Roughs had a single platform and two hollowed towers. "I just want to go somewhere else and relax for a while." He blurted back, careless with his words. "I want to go to the beach and see trees and play in the grass!"

There was a flicker of something in England's eyes, but the nation was inexorable. "There will be time for that later, Peter." Fort Roughs was beginning to read a pattern in the way England used his given name. It was always the precursor to news he didn't want to hear, and this time was no exception. "There's still a lot to do before things can get back to the way they used to be."

Fort Roughs knew England was right - he did - but he couldn't conceal the slight bitter twist to his lips at never being the most important thing. Maybe he wasn't particularly talented or special, but they were family, weren't they? His men seemed to think family was important, so why didn't England? Fort Roughs crossed his arms in front of his chest, his gaze fixing on a point somewhere near England's right shoulder. "Fine." He kept his voice flat. "Then why don't you just let me know when you finally decide you want me?"

"Peter..."

"Just-" He could feel the hitch in his voice and was afraid he was going to start crying and humiliate himself. "Just sod off and leave me alone!"

England went very quiet and Fort Roughs finally raised his eyes a little to see his brother's expression. England looked as frustrated as Fort Roughs felt right now, hands clenched but held very still at his sides. His voice was tight and controlled, "You need to calm down and be patient. I'm doing everything I can-"

"No you're _not_. You don't even _care_!" All of his insecurities bubbled to the surface, forced out by the fear and resentment that had been building deep inside of him. Fort Roughs bit his lip, feeling the damp trickle of tears escaping down his flushed cheeks. England's hand brushed his shoulder, probably meant to reassure him, and he wasn't even thinking as he lashed out, his small fist catching England low in the middle.

If it had been any other time, if England had already been given ample time to recover from the injuries inflicted by Germany, then the blow would have been laughable. As it was, England doubled over a little, swearing sharply. Beneath the open jacket of the uniform a dark stain was starting to spread on the fabric of his shirt. Fort Roughs staggered back a step, blue eyes wide. The sound of England's agonized wheezing cut through the haze around his thoughts and Fort Roughs darted away, descending into the far leg of the tower so quickly that he slipped halfway down and fell the rest of the distance.

He hit the floor hip first, panting silently in pain as he scrambled down the next two floors, slipping into his quarters and slamming the door. He threw the bolt, leaning his back against the door and wincing at the shooting pains through his leg. For a long time he stayed just like that, almost disappointed as the throbbing in his limb began to fade. Fort Roughs was caught on that look he'd seen on England's face, wanting to go back... fearing it. Guilt was eating holes in his insides as he stood there, silent. Expectant.

Waiting.

Even expecting it, he jumped at the sound of someone knocking on his door. Part of him was tempted to either yell at whoever it was - England? Would England have come himself? - or to hide under the bed and pretend he wasn't even there. The inclination was swiftly overpowered by a mixture of guilt and determination. Maybe he wasn't a nation, exactly, but that didn't mean he was going to sit here and cower in the dark. Fort Roughs let out a slow breath, rubbing at his forehead for a second before straightening up and turning around. The sound of the bolt unlocking was so loud it made him cringe a little inside.

It wasn't England on the other side of the door. It was the base's captain, standing there with a steady gaze. Their eyes met and Fort Roughs drew to attention and gave the man a salute which was quickly returned.

"At ease, Peter."

Fort Roughs sighed, letting his hand drop to his side. "Where's... where is..." He faltered, but the captain understood what he was trying to ask.

"England had to go back to meet with Parliament, Peter. I was told to let you know that they'll be providing new shipments of supplies within the week, with some new off-duty materials." If England had mentioned their little altercation up above, the captain gave no sign of it. Fort Roughs swallowed and nodded, not sure whether to be relieved or more worried.

"Captain." His tongue flicked across his lips, a quick, nervous gesture. If the captain had said nothing of the incident, then maybe he was a fool to bring it up himself. "I- how was England?"

A slow, steady look. "Is that all you want to ask, or is there something more you wish to tell me?" And just like that, Fort Roughs knew that the captain was aware of what had happened.

Eyes slid away from the man's gaze. "I- No. I guess." And when the captain still said nothing in response, Fort Roughs let out his breath in a sigh. "Would he not even reprimand me, then, or is that your job, Captain?" His voice came out flat. If England had wanted to take him to task, he would have been well justified and yet... _he couldn't even take the time to do that much._

"No." There was no indication of which question the captain was answering. "It's not my place to decide what should be done with you." Of course not. It wasn't like he was technically under the captain's command. In truth, Fort Roughs' own role had always been a little nebulous; he was half the cute kid mascot - someone for the men to treat like a surrogate son or a kid brother - half the advisor of sorts, who could tell anything amiss based solely on his own senses. It wavered back and forth so much between the two that it was no wonder the captain had no idea what to do right now. Was he under Fort Roughs' jurisdiction, as he was under England, or was it the other way around? The uncertainty was taxing.

And England, the one person who could have declared his role with some assurance, was not here.

Fort Roughs let out his breath, a soft sigh, and seized his own future in both small hands. "Captain. I do have something else to tell you. I-I must admit that I have made a - an error... in judgment." And oh, it was hard, so very hard to say those words. He wasn't sure himself if he felt guilty for overreacting, or just because he'd hurt England doing so. He didn't really want to think about it. "And as you are my commanding officer, I ask that you take any disciplinary measures you feel to be sufficient punishment for my actions." Fort Roughs had no idea what those might be, save that he couldn't be court martialed. The irony of the fact that he'd essentially given the captain the order to command him like he was any of the other sailors did not escape him.

His captain gave him a curious look, one that made him want to squirm in a mix of embarrassment and impatience. "You understand that I can't allow someone under my command to behave in such a disrespectful manner. This reflects badly on my own leadership." From the slow way the captain was speaking, he was giving Fort Roughs a chance to take back what he'd just said. As tempting as it was, Fort Roughs only bit his lip and nodded assent. "For the next two weeks, you are to report to me at the end of your duty shift. I'm certain that I can find plenty of menial work to keep you occupied."

Two weeks of scrubbing the boiler room floors and doing inventory on the weapons locker was not going to be fun, but it was the uncharacteristic coolness of the captain's tone, the way the man deliberately refrained from calling him by name, that really drove it home. He'd asked for no quarter and that was exactly what he was getting. Fort Roughs swallowed. "I understand, Captain." His tone was soft, but he managed to keep most of the hangdog guilt from it.

"And?"

He blinked. There was an 'and'? "I... uh..."

"You are late for your duty shift, Mr. Kirkland."

Oh! Fort Roughs flushed, making a flustered noise, but there was no lenience in the man's gaze. The young fort was forced to scramble for his post with the captain's watchful gaze on him.

-


End file.
